


Pale Blue Eyes

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inspired by Music, M/M, Romance, Slow Dancing, The Velvet Underground - Freeform, and a Neil Geiman post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 09:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Caught between the rest of their lives and the end of their lives, Crowley and Aziraphale take the bus back to Crowley's flat to wait out the night. But while innocently picking around Crowley's office, Aziraphale literally presses the button that reveals Crowley's longest held secret.





	Pale Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tumblr ask from Neil Gaiman https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/186074121451/as-a-huge-velvet-underground-fan-id-love-to-know. Also, do me a favor - if you can, go to YouTube, pull up the song Pale Blue Eyes, and start listening when Aziraphale presses play. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KisHhIRihMY

“Make yourself at home, angel,” Crowley says, removing his glasses and tossing them to his right. Only there’s nothing to catch them, and Aziraphale doesn’t hear them fall. He wonders if Crowley miracled them somewhere. Or do they just know their place in his home and go there on their own? Either way, they’re gone, and Aziraphale is glad about that.

He doesn’t know how to let on, but he’s rather fond of Crowley’s eyes.

“Mi casa es su … _oh_ …”

“_Oh_?” Aziraphale yelps, nearly running into Crowley when he stops short. “What do you mean _oh_?”

“_Oh_,” Crowley says, preceding slowly into the living room, sweeping his eyes suspiciously around, “as in, it was a bit more of a mess when I left. Looks like someone tidied up. Weren’t me, though.”

“_More_ of a mess?” Aziraphale follows, looking for himself, his brow crinkling at the immaculate room, not a spot he can see; unlike his bookshop, which is neat in his opinion, but with organized clutter and carefully curated stacks instead of open spaces, the way a museum storage room might be considered neat as long as the janitor sweeps the sawdust off the floor. “This is a _mess_ to you?” 

“Mmm … ngh … well, yes.” Crowley stops sneaking and strolls, more relaxed, through to his office, when he’s satisfied nothing strange or demonic is afoot. “I haven’t polished the floors in _weeks_.”

“Well, all right.” Aziraphale peers down and sees a perfect reflection looking back at him. “I see your point then.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“_Another_ one?” Aziraphale jokes, even though, after sharing a bottle of red wine, he still feels quite sober. Depressingly so. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough?”

He roams the perimeter of Crowley’s office, examining the few things he keeps in there – an ornate desk, a disgustingly elaborate chair to match, an answering machine, a large reference book on the universe (strange for a demon who claims not to read), and off in a far corner, a relatively small stereo seated on a white pedestal. To Aziraphale’s eyes, it doesn’t look like it’s attached to any speakers.

He doesn’t even think it’s plugged in.

“That was _wine_, angel. I’m talking about something _stronger, _something more suitable for toasting the Not-end-of-the-world.”

“What did you have in mind?” Aziraphale pushes what looks to be an _on_ button, and then another that brings up an abbreviated menu on a narrow screen. “_Velvet Underground_,” he mumbles to himself when the name scrolls. _Hmm_. Didn’t Crowley say he wouldn’t like it?

Time to find out.

“Absinthe,” Crowley replies, turning as Aziraphale presses play. “Angel?” He puts the bottle of green alcohol down and hurries over, hoping he can get to him before the music starts to play.

A slow guitar rhythm and tambourine beat solidifies the fact that he didn’t. A single male vocalist joins, singing wistful words to the two of them alone in the room.

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_Sometimes I feel so sad_

_Sometimes I feel so happy_

_But mostly you just make me mad_

_Baby you just make me mad_

“What is this?” Aziraphale asks.

“It’s … uh … the last song I listened to.”

Aziraphale eyes the screen, searching for a title, but it doesn’t indicate one. It only shows the number of the track - 4. There’s a strange symbol next to it, a circle with an arrow that he swears he’s seen before. If he’s correct, that symbol means _repeat_.

This song is on repeat.

“Do you listen to it a lot?”

“You might say that.”

“It’s nice. Is this song on that album in your car?”

Crowley doesn’t want to answer. One word, yes or no, could reveal too much. But he owes Aziraphale an answer after all the trust he’s put in him throughout the years.

“Yes.”

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

Aziraphale tilts his head at the chorus. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked what color your eyes were. I’m so used to them looking the way they are. Were they blue before …?” He gestures awkwardly to the ceiling, snatching his hand back quickly before he has the chance to offend. Crowley shakes his head.

“No. They weren’t.” He takes a step towards the stereo, trying to devise a subtle way to turn the song off. If he snaps his fingers, Aziraphale might figure him out.

He might get a clue to what he’s hidden for so long.

_Thought of you as my mountain top_

_Thought of you as my peak_

_Thought of you as everything_

_I've had but couldn't keep_

“Why haven’t you played this for me before?”

Crowley sighs heavily, his head hanging as he regards his reflection in the floor, trying to think his way out of this. But he can’t.

And maybe he shouldn’t.

They stared down death too many times to count today, including Satan himself, and survived.

They got a second chance and not just at life here on Earth.

Tomorrow, that chance might be snatched away from them.

This isn’t the time to be keeping secrets.

Crowley extends a hand to Aziraphale, lifts his gaze to look into the angel’s eyes.

“Dance with me?”

“I …” Aziraphale looks from Crowley’s hand to his face, golden eyes glowing softly in the dark, “it’s been a long time since I’ve danced to anything. I’ll look ridiculous.”

“Nobody’s here to see.”

“_You’re_ here.”

“That’s the point.” Crowley walks toward him, taking his hand from where it hangs at his side. “We’re here together … and I’ve wanted to dance with you for so long …”

“Just so you know, I’ve never slow danced before,” Aziraphale confesses, letting Crowley pull him into his arms. “There’s a 90% chance I’ll go left when I should go right and trample all over your feet.”

“You’re an angel.” Crowley puts a hand to the small of Aziraphale’s back. “I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

Aziraphale chuckles nervously. “Cheeky.”

_If I could make the world as pure_

_And strange as what I see_

_I’d put you in the mirror_

_I put in front of me_

Aziraphale barely moves his feet, terrified that he’s going to trip Crowley up, but as it turns out, he doesn’t need to. Crowley leads and Aziraphale floats, hovering an inch above the ground. But whose magic is doing it, he can’t tell. With Crowley holding him like this, he can no more feel the demon in him than he can feel the angel in himself.

Their magic feels so similar, it might as well be one.

_It was good what we did yesterday_

_And I'll do it once again_

_The fact that you are married_

_Only proves you’re my best friend_

_But it’s truly, truly a sin_

They drift towards the windows that line Crowley’s office. Aziraphale glimpses the city outside, asleep beneath an indigo sky and silver moon. They pass beyond the reach of the moonlight, moving into a space so inky black all he can see in the final window is their reflection.

He catches his own, his face staring back at him.

And his eyes. His _blue_ eyes.

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

_Linger on your pale blue eyes_

Aziraphale’s eyes grow wider.

_‘Oh dear …’_

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you listen to this song so much?”

“Because …” Crowley swallows hard “… it reminds me of something _important_ … something that I’ve wanted for a long time, but I don’t think I’ll ever have.”

“And what’s that?”

Crowley sighs again, his answer coming at the tail end, scattered to the cracks forming in his voice: “My best friend.”

“O-oh.”

The song ends, the final chord bleeding into the silence and leaving them there, swaying to the memory of the music. Aziraphale feels Crowley slow, feels his feet touch the ground. That re-connect with Earth, with _reality_, fills Aziraphale with a cold creeping dread.

They can only guess what might happen tomorrow – what might happen _tonight_ if Heaven and Hell get their forces together and decide not to wait.

Standing here, a tension wrapped around them that he could cut with a knife …

… it feels too much like a prelude to an ending.

“Do we … do we have to stop dancing?” Aziraphale asks. “Because I would rather not stop … if it’s all the same to you.”

“No, we don’t have to stop,” Crowley says, his breath catching when Aziraphale rests his head on his shoulder, taking a step in so Crowley will hold him tighter. “If we give it a moment, it’ll start over again.”


End file.
